Waning Light
by TwilightWakerofTime
Summary: With each passing day, Talion lost a bit more of himself to the Ring.


_A/N: This is the cringiest thing I've ever written. But Shadow of War really inspired me, and this amazing game deserves more fics, so here's something! I wrote this before any of the DLC came out, so please forgive the inconsistencies (especially with Blade of Galadriel, which is practically one big inconsistency on its own, isn't it)._

* * *

Silence was rare in a place like Mordor, but for a brief moment, everything was quiet.

Talion stood at the center of the carnage. The air was deathly still; not even the wind dared disturb the scene. Az-Adar Half-Tongue and his followers' bodies lay around him, their wounds clean and fresh. The foolish Olog-hai had believed he was a weak leader. Talion effortlessly proved him wrong.

A power stirred at the back of his mind, stolen instincts telling him exactly how to resurrect the fallen Uruk as loyal soldiers. And yet even that was soundless, pilfered knowledge of a man who had fallen victim to the Dark Lord in ages past. Everything was so maddeningly lifeless now, so completely different from what he was used to. An entirely different beast from the advice and constant companionship of Celebrimbor.

The ranger finally grit his teeth and sheathed his sword. He hated the wave of emotions that came with the thought of his former partner. A part of him wanted to drown it out with violence and death and darkness, to detach himself from any of the pain that came with remembering his past. And yet Talion resisted, for he suspected that part was no longer human.

He sensed, rather than saw, the small group of allied Uruk soldiers behind him. They were completely silent and still, waiting for his command, but he knew that they were far more terrified than they were letting on. He'd noticed for a while now that his soldiers had become more quiet and timid in his presence. When he walked through his fortresses, they were as silent as a graveyard—perhaps fitting for the Gravewalker. The only sounds were the fearful whispers of his followers after he passed, when they assumed he was out of range. Tales of how he had slain another traitor or enemy captain, of breaking the minds of his most unruly enemies, of dealing fates worse than death.

He recalled a time when he might have traversed Mordor with a bodyguard at his side, and they would have almost companionable discussions. It had seemed strange at first, being not only allies with orcs, but having friendly conversations with them. Even so, he'd come to enjoy it, for there was not much in the way of companionship in Mordor.

He wasn't entirely sure when they stopped talking to him, but he knew it probably had to do with the fact that he stopped talking to them. And with that impersonal relationship, he found it much easier to deal harsh punishments when needed. The orcs had always known him to be ruthless, but ever since gaining Isildur's ring he'd discovered a newfound appreciation for brutality.

They were tools, he reminded himself. Why should he care if they no longer spoke with him? If he no longer had anyone to speak to? He no longer needed companionship; anyone he'd ever come close to was gone, often through death or betrayal. He would defend Middle-earth on his own.

That's what he told himself anyway. But in truth, Talion felt… lonely.

oOo

When he first received Isildur's powers of necromancy, he did not hesitate to use them to retake Minas Morgul. It was only afterward that he questioned the ethicality of disturbing the peace of his fellow Gondorians for battle.

It was so easy to justify at first: after all, the Gondorians, even in death, would have gladly given up their eternal rest to liberate their city from the grasp of the Witch-king. At least, he thought so... It had been so long since he was mortal that it was becoming difficult to remember what being a Man felt like. This had been happening ever since Celebrimbor had bonded with him, but Talion couldn't help but feel like it was becoming even more difficult with Isildur's ring. Like many of the changes this new ring wrought, he wasn't sure how to feel about that.

What would he have thought of necromancy during his time at the Black Gate? Would he have been repulsed? Most likely, though he found it difficult to dredge up that same horror now.

So he used this newfound power to its fullest. His armies were infinite now; the soldiers that fell were revived as revenants and supported by Gondorian wights. He was a master of death. And when he thought of the dead, there were two particular people that came to mind…

On one of the days where he couldn't quite keep away the memories, Talion found himself face to face with Ioreth. It wasn't really her, of course: she was completely expressionless, her eyes empty voids. Despite these clear signs of lifelessness, Talion felt a greater wave of emotion than he had since Celebrimbor had left him. Her presence drove away the numbness and brought forth not only the sorrow, but also a brimming hope.

Perhaps if he had been in a better state of mind, he would have been horrified by the sight of his wife's ghostly form. But Talion was desperate, and desperation made it hard to remember exactly why it should be so repulsive.

"Talion…" she whispered. "Talion…"

"I'm here," he said, his voice breaking. He could almost ignore the inhuman echoing of his voice. "It's me, Ioreth. I'm here for you."

But she did not respond, instead moaning pitifully.

"Stop that," he pleaded, and indeed she immediately stopped, a perfectly loyal wight. But her eyes continued to stare straight past him, unblinking and unseeing. She was nothing more than a puppet.

A long, shuddering sigh passed through him. After one last look at his dead wife's face, he closed his eyes and turned around. He left the specter behind and did not look back.

Talion did not try to resurrect anyone else he knew after that.

oOo

Revenge was something he craved, but tried to suppress. Sometimes he entertained that burning rage at the back of his mind, fantasizing over the different ways he could torture those who had abandoned him. He imagined the elven assassin losing her head, or his blade piercing the traitorous wraith's chest—but he never considered this for too long. It tempted him, and tempted the ring. But despite the whispered promises at the back of his mind, he was certain he would not get his revenge if he fell to Sauron.

So he redirected that rage to his enemies. It was easy to kill. If nothing else, that was the one thing Talion had perfected over the years. Now that he was alone, the days blended together, and finding new ways to slaughter orcs was the one thing that prevented him from becoming completely apathetic. Sometimes he would challenge himself. How many orcs could he kill with one arrow shot? How much of the captain's gang could he brand before anyone noticed? Could he slay all of the outpost's reinforcements before his bodyguard defeated the outpost leader? Playing sadistic games with orc lives was the one of the few ways to distract himself.

The most difficult of these situations were betrayals. When one of his captains betrayed him, it reminded him far too much of the elf-lord that had served as his second half for so long.

Today, Norsko the Venomous renounced Talion inside of his own fortress. And he was on his knees in an instant, kneeling at the mercy of his former master.

Norsko begged for his life. Apologized and promised to obey.

For a brief moment, Talion considered indulging him.

But all he had to do was imagine Celebrimbor's face, and his sword was violently pierced through Norsko's torso. With a single, powerful stroke, Norsko was cleaved in two.

He'd had enough deception. There would be no mercy for traitors ever again.

oOo

As time went on, Talion found it easier not to feel anything at all.

Remembering hurt. So eventually, he forgot.

Each day brought more numbness. He could sense the remnants of his emotions slipping away like the memories he once cherished. Something deep within him was clawing its way to the surface, consuming the sorrow and suffering until there was nothing left but _cold_. Sometimes he would recall faces of those who he might have once considered friends: a young swordswoman, a queen's daughter, a dwarven hunter, a banished ranger. But thinking about them brought a deep hurtful longing, so he drew away.

Why should he cling to humanity when all it ever brought was pain?

He couldn't discern how much time had passed—months, years, decades. Life had turned into an endless cycle of killing and dominating orcs, defending and conquering fortresses. He wasn't sure why he did this any longer, only that it was very, very important to him that he never stop fighting. He would continue fighting until he had completed his purpose, whatever it may be.

That was why when the Witch-king appeared and told him it was over, he believed him. He had fought for so long, and with no past to guide him, who was he to say that he had not succeeded?

Something stirred within him, a voice nearly-buried crying out for the first time in years. Sauron had been his enemy all this time, had he not? It seemed wrong...

But for the first time, it felt _right_.

The former ranger turned and joined his fellow Nazgûl.

* * *

"Let the waning light of man / cast my shadow on the fires of war..."

* * *

 _Words: 1,553_

 _Published July 30th, 2018_


End file.
